A Man Walks into a Bar
by Inuluvr
Summary: It was a normal Tuesday night in the bar... until he came.  The man in the black hoodie who came with a warning.  A warning that started it all... M for language.  Quick oneshot, no pairings .


It was a dreary Tuesday night and the rain pattered lightly on the glass panes of the bar windows. Desmond shuffled about behind the counter, cleaning glasses and tidying his workspace. Tuesdays were always long nights, quiet with only a few regulars hiding away in their own corners. Desmond noticed that one regular was missing—a good friend of Desmond's- but he hadn't been around for a while, so he thought nothing of it. Sighing, he glanced around the room before pulling up a stool and sitting down, staring at the rain streaking down from the skies.

Nobody in the bar spoke; everyone sat at their own table doing their own thing. The silence was compromised only by the constant hum from the television above the counter. Desmond looked at the abandoned piano that sat in the corner, untouched and covered with dust. Part of him wished he could play, just so he could entertain himself on nights like these. He cast another glance around the room and propped his head on his hand. Did he really want to spend the rest of his nights here? Had he really given up what he had been born to do, just so he could run this grungy bar in this rundown corner of the city?

Desmond was startled out of his thoughts as the door to the bar opened. He looked up to see a man he had never seen before stepping into the room. A cold rush of air from the outside swept through the room, rustling napkins and disturbing the regulars. A few looked up.

The man wore a black hoodie that clung to his body, dripping with cold rain. His hood was pulled far down so that Desmond could only see the tip of his nose and his long, square jaw. Accompanied by the hood was a tall jacket collar that was pulled around the man's neck, raising Desmond's suspicions. This man didn't seem friendly, and he certainly didn't want anyone knowing who he was. He approached the bar wearily, and raised his head only slightly so that Desmond could see the bridge of his nose.

"Give me the lightest you've got." He growled, pulling out his wallet and laying four singles on the table. As Desmond poured the drink, there was an awkward silence—Desmond didn't particularly want to start a conversation, and it was clear to him that the man didn't want to uphold one. When the drink was prepared, the man took it without looking up. He gave Desmond a gruff thank you then walked over to the corner booth, settling himself in the dark. Desmond felt uneasy, but the man hadn't tried anything. Maybe Desmond was letting his paranoia get the better of him. He stared at the man for several minutes; he was around Desmond's age if not a few years older, sturdily built with long and slender yet muscular arms. His shady behavior had put Desmond on full alert, but maybe he was just having a bad day. Maybe he just really needed that drink.

About an hour later, Desmond found himself staring at the rain again. Bored of the storm, he glanced around the room. His eyes landed on the stranger, who seemed to be fixated on his drink, deep in thought. He hadn't taken a sip yet, which Desmond thought was a bit odd. The man just seemed off. As he began to wipe down the counter for the tenth time, Desmond realized that the hair on the back of his neck had risen, and he chuckled at himself.

The night was slipping away slowly, with little activity. Rain continued to beat relentlessly against the window. Several of the regulars had left, and only a handful remained. The strange man from earlier had not moved; his drink remained untouched, and he was sitting, staring into nothingness. Desmond decided to wander to the remaining tables to get a closer look. He asked the regulars if they needed anything, which they didn't, then meandered over to the hooded newcomer.

"Is everything ok? You haven't had a sip of your drink… is something wrong?" The man turned his head slightly in Desmond's direction, a sad smile playing over his lips, "Too many things wrong to list." Desmond stood awkwardly—he wasn't sure how to respond. After a moment of silence, the man sighed. "Your drink isn't one of the problems." Desmond took this as a cue to leave and walked behind the counter, passing two customers turning in for the night. He nodded his good night to them and started wiping down the counter. There were only two people left in the bar now besides Desmond: the strange man and another regular.

Time passed rather slowly until the last regular retired for the night, leaving a nice tip on the counter. As the door slowly closed, Desmond felt his uneasiness return; he was now alone with the strange man.

Desmond, had grown bored with the storm and had turned his attention to the news, listening to political squalls and hearing about robberies, rapes, and various other terrible woes of the world. Again, he looked about the empty bar. The hooded man had merely tasted his drink, and was now sitting hunched over the table as if he were in pain. He didn't seem to take notice that he was the only one left in the bar besides the bartender. Desmond reassured himself that the man had no bad intentions; he was only there to drink away his sorrows.

Desmond turned to the television again, watching as pictures of Manhattan flashed on the screen. The city had been devastated recently by some strange viral outbreak. Very few people had made it out alive, and the newscast was just now getting the interviews and information they had been begging for. According to various sources, the virus had been released by a terrorist, Alex Mercer, a man who used to work for some company by the name of Gentek. Not a name he was familiar with, but it was apparently a big company in Manhattan. The terrorist, they said, was most likely dead after having been involved in a massive explosion. They didn't elaborate much on the explosion, but Desmond was curious. How did they know he was dead? He shrugged the thought away and turned his attention back to the screen, just as a picture of the terrorist appeared, telling people to alert law enforcement if they saw the man.

Desmond froze and felt his heart sink deep into his stomach. The picture of the alleged terrorist was a man in a black hoodie and dark jeans, the man who was at the moment sitting in the corner booth of the bar. He looked more rugged and broken in real life than in the picture, but there was no mistake that he was Alex Mercer. Adrenaline rushing through his veins, Desmond snapped his head back to the man in the booth.

He hadn't moved.

Breathing heavily, Desmond tried to quickly sort out a plan. As an assassin, he had been taught since birth to think on his feet and to always be prepared. So why was he so scared, paralyzed with fear? He could feel panic rising from the pits of his stomach, making him feel sick. There was something about this man- something that made him so different, so….unnatural.

Trying to shake his uneasiness, he examined his situation. It seemed like Alex hadn't noticed the news broadcast or Desmond's reaction. He could silently alert the police with his phone; problem was, his phone was in his jacket, which was hanging on the coat rack across the room. If he could figure out a way to get over there without raising Alex's suspicions, he could get him out of here before any real damage was done. Desmond stole a quick glance at Alex then started towards his jacket. He kept his head down, trying to hide his fidgeting as he passed the mass murderer. He reached the coat hanger and slipped his hand into his coat pocket, looking as casual as he could.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you," Hot breath down Desmond's neck made him jump. Quickly, he spun around to find Alex standing directly in front of him, hands in his jacket pockets. Desmond could see his face clearly for the first time—his eyes were an icy inhuman blue, and his face was drawn out and pale. He didn't look healthy or strong—in fact he looked rather emaciated and sickly, but Desmond's instincts were screaming danger. There was a reason he wasn't dead yet.

"Yeah? And what if I do?" Desmond asked, backing away slowly. His eyes widened as Alex's arm morphed into something resembling a blade. Alex thrust his arm forward, pinning the bartender against the wall by his shirt. "You do, and I'll kill you." Alex glared menacingly at Desmond, his face inches away from his victim's. He brought the blade against Desmond's neck, applying slight pressure. "Don't do anything stupid." He said, releasing Desmond and pulling away. Desmond rubbed his throat and glared daggers at Alex, watching as his hand morphed back to normal. "You'll kill me anyway." Alex turned and met his eyes with a steady, intense gaze. He then broke the gaze and settled down on one of the bar stools on the other side of the room, leaving Desmond speechless and a bit confused. After several seconds, Alex lifted his head. "You going to ask me what I want and give me a drink, or what?"

Desmond stared blankly at the man. Was he being serious? Three seconds after threatening to take his life, and he was asking Desmond why he wasn't taking drink orders.

"C'mon, Desmond. Suck it up, assassin." Desmond blinked, panic-stricken. How the HELL did this man know who he was? He knew his name… and his secret? Desmond stepped back, eyes wide with fear.

"H-How do you know my name? And how do you know about… about…." Alex raised his head slowly, his cold, heartless eyes meeting Desmond's terror-stricken ones. A small smile tried to play across his lips, but he twisted it, expressing a sadistic look of mischief instead. "Get me a drink first, bartender. And for that matter, pour yourself one, too. Give me the strongest you've got. I'll tell you what you want to know."

Desmond complied, silently trying to analyze the man who sat before him. The mass murderer who was telling him to sit down and have a cold beer with him. This night, Desmond decided as he prepared two sex on the beaches, couldn't get any more bizarre.

As the night went on, he found himself to be very, very wrong.

After he had poured both of the drinks, Desmond pulled a stool over to the counter and sat opposite of Alex. Alex picked up the drink and took a deep swallow, keeping his eyes on Desmond the entire time. He placed the glass on the table, ignoring Desmond's intent stare. Several minutes of silence followed, in which Alex traced the rim of his beer mug with his finger.

"It's been a while since I've had any alcohol," he finally said, in a matter-of-fact tone. Desmond stared hard at Alex.

"What the fuck is _wrong _with you?" He was frustrated and uncomfortable, knowing this man had the power to kill him with the slightest effort. So why hadn't he? Alex remained silent for a moment, then took a sip from his drink.

"You shouldn't be so quick to assume that I'm going to kill you. Don't tell me that that's not what you're thinking; I know it's not true. But keep in mind that I haven't done anything to deserve distrust." Desmond threw his hands up in the air.

"You haven't _done_ anything? Does _the whole of Manhattan_ ring a bell?" Alex, who had been taking another sip, lowered his glass to the counter. His eyes flashed with anger. "Don't talk about what you don't know, _boy._ The news doesn't always tell the truth. They're puppets to greater forces." Desmond, though intimidated by Alex, continued his argument. "Oh, so now you're preaching a government conspiracy? And you expect me to believe that?" Alex didn't respond, and a tense silence settled over the empty bar. Desmond continued to glare at Alex with mistrust and hatred. What did this man want, and why was he here?

"I'm surprised you don't believe in conspiracies," Alex finally said, his eyes covered again by the hood of his jacket. "Especially after what happened to your ranch, and everyone there." Desmond blinked. What game was he playing? The ranch, as far as Desmond knew, was fine. And the people in it—his family, he had last heard were searching for him in the wrong city. Alex studied Desmond closely. "You _do_ know what happened, right?" Desmond eyed him suspiciously and shook his head uncertainly.

"Well, I'm sorry to be the one to tell you this, but the ranch was burned to the ground. And everyone inside of it…. They were either killed or taken as test subjects. And those who were taken are dead now, too." Desmond looked at him blankly. Obviously this man knew nothing about what he was talking about. The Assassin's ranch had been a hidden sanctuary for those against the Templars for years. There was no way that they had been discovered. Not after all this time. He was beginning to think that Alex was making things up. But where had he gotten all that information about him from..?

"How do you know so much?" He asked bluntly, looking the gaunt man in the face. Alex rubbed his head. "You're too naïve. You have no friends. Tom was supposed to kidnap you tonight for a company called Abstergo." Desmond rolled his eyes and huffed. "Abstergo? You mean the medical research company? What could they possibly want from me?"

"You're an assassin. They're not."

"So you're telling me that Tom told you all of this. Assuming he _is_ a secret agent for a _medical_ company, why the hell would he have told a complete stranger all of this? And if you're not a stranger, then why aren't you here to 'kidnap' me?" Desmond eyed Alex critically, his fear slowly converting to impatience.

"He didn't tell me anything. I killed him and got the information through that, in a very vague sense." Desmond stood up, patience wasted and tired of Alex's bullshit.

"Look, whatever you're on, I don't want to be part of your trip. Get the _fuck_ out of my bar, and don't come back." Alex remained in his seat, unmoving. Desmond stood stiffly, his arm raised and pointed at the bar door.

"I'm not done my drink yet," Alex picked up his glass and took a long swig before replacing it on the counter. "I haven't had alcohol in a long time, and I don't plan on wasting the night." Infuriated, but unwilling to provoke the murderer, Desmond sat down. He was running out of options now. He needed to switch tactics, and he needed to do so stealthily. An idea began to form in Desmond's mind as he replayed the last thing Alex had said. _I haven't had alcohol in a long time._ He looked at the murderer's glass, half-drained and watery from the melting ice.

He stood and walked over to the drink shelf. He found some of the hardest liquor and poured it into Alex's glass, filling it to the brim. Alex eyed him cautiously, then took a long drink from his cup. After a long silence, Alex spoke.

"You know, trying to get me wasted to the point I can't function isn't going to work. First off, I don't get inebriated. It doesn't really settle in my stomach like normal people. Secondly, I'll go right to vomiting if I take in too much. And trust me, you don't want to see my retch. If you knew what I eat, you'd stop right now."

"So you're claiming that because you're a mass murderer, you react differently to alcohol? Want to test that theory?" Desmond lifted the bottle. He wasn't intimidated by the vomiting. Being a bartender, he'd seen a lot of puke in his time, and he'd gotten used to the normal bile and the smell.

"Not particularly, no." Alex coughed into the sleeve of his sweatshirt. Desmond caught a glimpse of blood at the corner of his mouth before he wiped it off. Something was off about Alex, and Desmond inexplicably knew. He could just… _feel_ it.

"Are you used to coughing up blood?" Thwarted in his final attempt of escape, Desmond let his body relax. He couldn't do anything else… it was up to fate now. He took a spoon out from under the counter and stirred his watered down drink while he waited for a response from Alex.

"Yeah," Alex replied softly, almost in a saddened tone. "It's something that happens when you lose your humanity." Desmond looked at Alex for a long time, watching as he wiped the sweat off the glass.

"So if you're not human, what are you?" The bartender examined Alex closely. He certainly looked human enough—he had the same features, the same skin, eyes, nose. But he had morphed his arm into something. Maybe he was some sort of science experiment.

"I'm a shell of what used to be a human. I may look human, I am an exact replication of the real Alex Mercer. He's the one who created me. But that man is long dead. I'm just a virus in a protective and malleable armor." Alex showed no emotion as he said this, stating it matter-of-factly with little facial expression. Desmond was finding it hard to believe, but it explained everything that was off about the man sitting across from him. He couldn't put a finger on it before, but Desmond was realizing that Alex's body movements were stiff and not like a normal human's. He showed little emotion other than seriousness, with a hint of a psychotic side. For all Desmond knew, Alex was a bloodthirsty, mentally unstable lunatic, but something inside of him was convinced that Alex was telling the truth.

"Aren't you bothered knowing you're not human?" Desmond prodded, hoping that the man across would open up, and spare Desmond's life for listening.

"Not really, no." Alex shook his head slightly, "I don't remember what it was like to be human, so I don't really have anything to compare this life to." Desmond nodded, inexplicably feeling sorrow for the man—or virus, whatever he was. "So, did you only come to warn me about Abstergo? Doesn't seem like something so inhuman like you would care about anyone else." Desmond placed his head in his hand, the alcohol in his drink beginning to make him feel warm. Alex's cold eyes locked onto Desmond, one emotion showing brightly through his icy irises.

"Just because I'm a virus doesn't mean I don't care. In fact, I came here specifically because I didn't want them to experiment on any more people. And I figured since I'd heard that you'd be the next target, I'd come and save you the pain I've suffered."

"You came here just to warn me?" Desmond sat back in his chair and laughed, his thinking blurred by the alcohol. "You figured you'd just waltz in here and save me like some fucked up hero?"

Alex leaned in close to Desmond, his eyes narrow. "You've never seen a testing facility. I have. When you have seen people experimented on and slowly destroyed from inside out, then you can talk to me about something being fucked up." Desmond met Alex's eyes with his own and felt a shiver run down his spine. Maybe it was ridiculous, but Desmond was getting itchy to leave the bar and go to the security of his own home.

"Ok, ok, calm down." Desmond put his hands up in defense. "I was just saying, a mass murderer saving a stranger from some danger seems a little odd to me. Though I guess if Abstergo did this to you, then I should understand where you're coming from."

Alex shook his head, "Abstergo didn't do this to me, Gentek did. But Gentek is on the same side as Abstergo. You have to be careful. I read a file about the most recent subject—subject 16. You want to talk to me about fucked up, you read that report about what he did to himself. Read about how he slowly and painfully lost his mind. That could be you. No, it _will_ be you if you don't listen to what I tell you." The younger man swallowed nervously, his wits coming to their ends.

Alex continued, finishing the last of his drink. "You need to get out of here. It's not safe." Desmond shook his head disbelievingly. "Where do you suggest I go? If they're really following me, they know where I live, so home's not safe, either." Alex coughed, and the bartender couldn't help but notice more blood smeared on his jacket sleeve.

"You can come with me," Alex suggested. "I've never had anyone tag along, but it'd be safer, and we could learn from one another. I'd have another ally to fight the evils conspiring against so many." Desmond blinked. Leaving, with _him_?

"No." Desmond said flatly, staring into the sunken eyes of the creature before him. "I'm not running away from my problems, especially not with a psychotic inhuman being who's being hunted by the government. No thank you."

A flash of sorrow—perhaps remorse or pity, sparked in Alex's eyes before they went dull again. "Fine." He stood up, throwing the rest of the money on the counter next to his empty drink. "But when they come, run like _hell_. But don't hide. Because if you hide, they will find you. The rest of your assassins at the ranch found that out the hard way. You may not be the only one left yet, but you're pretty damn close." Desmond followed Alex's every movement with his eyes. Alex slowly walked to the door, pushing it open and letting the cold air swirl with the stale air of the bar. He paused for a minute, and lowered his head.

"Good luck assassin," And then he was gone, the door closing softly behind him.

The air settled and Desmond looked around the quiet bar. It seemed like it had been nothing but a bad dream, as though none of it had happened. But the assassin knew better.

It had been about an hour since Alex had left Desmond, and the bartender had spent that time cleaning everything up. He was not as shaken up now, it seemed as though Alex's visit had been nothing more than a drunken dream. He glanced around the bar then looked down at his watch. About 3AM. He was going to get back to his place and collapse on his bed. Nothing was more inviting.

Desmond lifted his head as the door suddenly swung open and an older man with grey hair and glasses in a lab coat stepped in. The man was followed by what appeared to be three well-armed, very intimidating body guards. The man smiled a devious smile at the bartender.

"Good evening Mr. Miles, or should I say Subject 17?"


End file.
